


hanging in a void

by crucios



Series: restart the heart you gave me 'verse [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucios/pseuds/crucios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Louis speaks, it’s a little bit slurred. “I just needed to hear your voice.”</p><p>timestamp to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/413440">restart the heart you gave me</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	hanging in a void

**Author's Note:**

> gosh, hello. alright so, i have quite a lot of bits and pieces of this 'verse just sitting on my harddrive either unfinished or in need of a little bit neatening up. i won't ever write a prequel to this; it was never about how liam and louis ended up that way, it was about the fight to get better. having said that, there are a few things set pre-rthygm that i felt i needed to write. hence the timestamps.
> 
> anyway, i'm in the process of going through my harddrive and attempting to finish off and/or tidy up these snippets to post and draw a line under this fic for good. some of them are longer than others. this one's a very little one; it fits in somewhere between _show your cards and watch me fall_ and _all your monsters in the night_.
> 
> (ps. if you're reading this, thanks for sticking with me.)

Louis calls Liam for one of the last times two months after Liam leaves—or perhaps it’s three. No one’s counting, probably. Well, alright, maybe Liam is a little bit; maybe it’s two months, three weeks and two days. A handful of hours, too. But that’s not the point.

He heartlessly hopes Louis' fucking counting, as well—he takes it back though. It isn't what he wants; he wants to Louis to live in all of the ways Liam can't.

Louis’ drunk ( _of course_ he is, Liam thinks uselessly), or at least well on his way there. 

He’s not quite the sort of drunk that more often than not has ended up in a lot of dreadful yelling and very choice insults – and Liam panic-calling Harry in the middle of the night before doing a quick runner to Zayn’s – but it’s definitely getting there.

It’s three am and Liam can hear a distorted sort of _club music_ music thudding somewhere in the background. It’s all starting to sound the same to him; it could be Rihanna, or it could be Calvin Harris. He doesn't especially care anyway; he doesn't listen to music anymore.

When Louis speaks, it’s a little bit slurred. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

Liam tries not to react. He makes a non-committal noise in response and waits, counting to ten. _One-mississippi, two-mississippi_. He’s getting better at it (the Not Reacting thing, not the counting); Louis calls him approximately every other night now - sometimes every night - so he’s sort of mastered the whole awkward apathy approach. He's also angrily resigned himself to definitely not getting any sleep, _ever_. He mostly hasn't been sleeping anyway—Louis probably knows that. But, whatever. It’s the principal of it all. He _wants_ to sleep.

Liam doesn't think he'd classify the calls as conversations for the most part, just a string of “I miss you”s and “Come home”s and Liam sucking in a breath and patiently waiting for Louis to stop talking long enough to tell him: “No,” and: “I’m sorry.”

When Louis stops this time though, the only thing Liam can seem to manage is a horribly miserable, “I miss you, too,” and he hates himself a little bit for that. He needs to be a stone wall, because he knows Louis won't be. But tonight he feels like he's made of paper, and not even particularly good quality paper. He feels like _Asda's Own_ paper.

“You’re not coming home, are you?” Louis asks plainy; his tone sounds just about as _absolutely hopeless_ as Liam feels.

Liam shakes his head against the phone and shuts his eyes tight until he can see fuzzy stars on the black of his eyelids. “Not this time, Lou.”

The line falls silent for so long that Liam is almost sure that Louis has just gone and _hung up on him _, but then: “I love you,” says Louis softly; the booming music at whatever club it is he has no doubt spectacularly fallen into tonight almost drowns him out.__

Liam sort of wishes it had.

He sighs and ignores the way Louis’ voice breaks when he starts to say it again, cutting him off sharp—“Go home.”

“It’s not _home_ , is it? You’re not there.”

“Louis, please,” Liam begs, digging his nails into his temple.

He wants to be able to switch everything off; he wants to start shouting until his throat is raw and bloody. He wants to go home. Maybe it was better hurting each other when they were together than hurting each other when they're apart.

Maybe Liam just needs to fucking hang up—make some tea. Call Zayn.

“I love you,” Louis tells him – again – like they’re fucking magic words. Like he's waving about a shiny wand and they can fix everything with a flick of it and three little words.

Liam says: “I love you, too,” and tries to keep his voice mostly level. They're starting to sound less like words and more like a funeral march.

His limbs feel awfully heavy—like he’s fighting and clawing to swim to the surface but there are shackles bruising and blistering into his wrists and ankles. He's pretty sure love isn't supposed to feel like this. He sinks further into the sofa, hoping that maybe – somehow – he might just drown and, like, suffocate in it.

“But it’s not enough, Lou. I’m hanging up now, okay?” he finishes finally, and he almost prides himself on the fact that he _does_ hang up.

He stops answering the calls after that; there's nothing left to say that they haven't said to death and buried six feet under.

Eventually, Louis stops calling.


End file.
